


Expensive Tastes

by meetthethiefa



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, BDSM, Blood, Daddy Kink, Domestic Violence, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/F, F/M, Manipulation, Master/Slave, Multi, Physical Abuse, Porn With Plot, Rape/Non-con Elements, Threesome - F/M/M, Under-negotiated Kink, Vaginal Sex, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-02
Updated: 2019-04-12
Packaged: 2019-11-08 06:05:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17975858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meetthethiefa/pseuds/meetthethiefa
Summary: Thomas Jefferson and Y/N enter a mutually beneficial, physical relationship – Y/N gets whatever Jefferson's money can buy, and Jefferson gets Y/N.At first, Y/N enjoys her newfound wealth (and Jefferson is quite easy on the eyes), however, soon finds herself in a web of politics and lies, and when feelings get thrown into the mix, everything slowly starts to fall apart.Only one thing in Y/N's life is certain: She will do anything to protect her neighbor, Maria Reynolds.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Quick note for this work – the BDSM-etiquette in this story is very unsafe and not to be copied. Furthermore, a lot of Jefferson's actions in this story are not to be seen as romantic, but abusive and controlling and not at all desirable. The rape/non-con warning is for a later chapter, I'll write in the notes when it occurs. Please read the tags and remember that this is fiction.

She’s been sitting there for a few minutes now. Waiting, watching, being watched. Fingers gripping her skirt, tight, like the fabric is the only thing keeping her from dissolving. She doesn’t like the way he looks at her, dark eyes tinted with idle satisfaction. Then again, she does not not like it.

She takes a deep breath. Jefferson smirks.

“Go ahead,” he says, voice like honey, but the kind that might rot in your mouth. “Ask your questions.” She watches him watch her like she’s prey. There’s something heavy in his gaze, a consideration of something Y/N can’t quite place, and she refuses to meet it with her own. Instead, her eyes fall on the silver plate of fruit to the side of the large dark wood table. Her stomach growls and Jefferson must have noticed, for he pushes the plate towards her with an idle nudge. “Go ahead, darling. Take  _ whatever _ you want.”

Fingers unfurl from her skirt, picks up the pomegranate with a dainty motion. It’s been cut in half. Juice from its seeds runs down the side, over her hand, leaving thin splotches of red upon her skin. She does not fail to notice the delight in his features when she plucks out three pips and eats them, her hands sticky. The fruit is sour on her tongue.

Jefferson leans back in his chair, looks like the picture of calm self-assuredness, lets his gaze roam the expanse of her figure before him – Y/N wants to curl in on herself.

“Why am I here?” She sounds breathy, even to her own ears, like she’s out of breath, though, her voice is still laced with that careful, unshakeable determance she carries with her – in spite of Jefferson's intimidating presence and voluptuous surroundings.

Y/N’s curious, that’s why she’s here. A secretary called her, told her  _ “Thomas Jefferson wants to meet you _ .  _ Come tomorrow, look presentable” _ , followed by an address and a time. No answers to her questions – only a vague promise of an opportunity she would not want to refuse. A Google-search later and Y/N was gaping at her screen;  _ wealth and opulence, some sort of business man. _

_ Curiosity killed the cat, but satisfaction brought it back.  _ She refused to be left unsatisfied.

“I have a gift for you, darling.” He reaches beneath his desk and pulls out a white paper-bag with the word  _ Dior  _ printed on its side in black. “And an offer.”

He pushes the back towards her, gaze heavy and expectant, waiting for her to take it. She does, with demur ardent in her face, eyes wide with confusion. The tips of her fingers linger on the package within.

A gasp slips past her lips. Jefferson looks smug, satisfied, like he expected it.

It’s a Miss Dior Eau De Parfum, 100 ml, a fragrance Y/N has been pining for for days; doesn’t have the money for it, doesn’t have the money for anything but the bare necessities. The elegant, blush-coloured packaging matches the dusty colour blooming upon her cheeks. Her heart speeds up.

_ How did he know? _

He speaks before she can ask. “I saw you the other day, at the center. I rarely do my own shopping, but I do enjoy people-watching.” He leans forward in his seats, elbows planted on his desk, fingers threaded, and chin resting upon them. “You intrigued me, sugar. Don’t know why, but you did. So I pulled some strings, talked with some people, and found out who you are. Miss Y/N L/N, broke, working at a shitty coffee-shop and taking piano-lessons.”

His listing is methodical, sounds bored, like he’s reciting a recipe and not Y/N’s life. Her breath quickens – he’s playing with her, it’s so obvious. She stares at him wide-eyed, refuses to squirm under his smug gaze, but can’t help but swallow hard, unease coiling in her stomach.

His eyes follow the movement of her throat.

“What’s it to you?” she asks, scared to ask how he knows all this, terribly aware of the way her voice shakes.

“Because-” His smile widens, but it’s not pleasant – it’s predatory, gleeful in a twisted way- “I’m the sort of person who gets what he wants.” A pause. “And I want you.”

Y/N jolts in her seat, suddenly feels hot in the large room.

Jefferson raises his hands, as if surrendering. Continues, “And I can give you what you want.  _ Anything _ , that is. You name it and it’s yours. If you agree to the terms and conditions presented to you – of course – then a  _ reasonable _ amount of my fortune will come to be at your disposal. If you give yourself over.”

And at that, Y/N straightens her back – she knows this game.

“Are you talking about sexual-”

“Yes. Of course I am.” There’s a hint of impatience in his voice, but he buries it beneath the warm glow of calm with ease. “I’m not asking for a relationship and certainly not the monogamous kind. I’m not asking you to be my girlfriend, darling. I’m asking you to be my… I don’t want to be crude, but, essentially, you would be my– shall we say concubine?”

At this, Y/N feels a sense of security settle upon her shoulders, the coil in her stomach uncoiling in slow, methodical movements.

“And you would be, like, my sugar daddy?” she asks, voice finally finding its strength. In this, she’s well-versed.

He mentioned  _ terms and conditions _ –  _ A BDSM contract _ , her mind helpfully adds. And, yeah, that’s exactly what it sounds like he’s proposing, but, then again, he also said it wouldn’t be a monogamous relationship, which is unusual.

To be honest, this whole situation is unusual; Y/N has participated in agreements like the one Jefferson is alluding to with carefully chosen words.  _ He’s avoiding the term. He’s scared you’ll leave if he says it out-right. _ It’s an epiphany that almost puts a smile to her face, but she suppresses it, keeps it to herself, revels in the fact that he doesn’t know everything about her despite his obvious wish to make her think so.

He shakes his head, that self-assured smirk slowly easing into a more serious one.

“Not quite,” he says. From somewhere beneath his desk, he pulls out a semi-thick pile of papers and sets it on the surface between them. He lays his hand on the first page, making it impossible for Y/N to read what it says. “The agreement I want is going to go a little further than those kinds of arrangements. You see, I’m a busy man, and – while I’m normally of the opinion that beggars can’t be choosers – I have very specific tastes. Desires. And those desires would take far too long to fulfill if I were to find a new  _ girl _ every time I needed to do so.” He lifts his hand. ‘CONSENSUAL “LIMITED SLAVERY” CONTRACT’ it says on the front page. Y/N reads it before he even has time to spin the pile of papers and push it towards her. “And that’s where you come in.”

With steady fingers, Y/N picks up the contract, feels the burn of Jefferson’s gaze on her hands as she inspects the first few pages. It’s familiar. It wouldn’t be her first BDSM contract. It would, however, be her first contact with an obscenely rich stranger. Despite the calmness flowing through her, she still feels the heat creeping up her neck and over her cheeks.

“Like I said, you intrigue me, and an arrangement such as the one detailed in the contract in your hands is mutually beneficial, in that you can get whatever your little heart desires, whether it’s perfume or apartments, and I get a bedmate with whom I can let completely let loose with.”

At that, Y/N looks up, tries not to flinch at the heavy dark eyes staring back at her. Tries to be professional.

“Boundaries and safewords are discussed in the contract, right?”

Jefferson’s smile hardens. “One of the conditions is that you tell me every boundary you have and every single thing you might not be comfortable with. I refuse to use safewords.”

Y/N hesitates, doesn’t like the sound of not being able to tap out; Safewords are essential to contracts like the one she holds in her hands – they ensure the safety of the submissive in the arrangement. Still, the idea of being able to get anything money can buy…

“What does  _ limited slavery  _ entail?”

“Do you know what a Master–Slave contract is?”

“Yes.”

For just a moment, Jefferson looks stunned, eyebrows rising in the slightest, a sudden pause to his movements.

“Well I– then it’s like those, except your possessions, assets, and finances will remain yours. I won’t expect you to be physically available at all times or live with me, nor will you be barred from entering other relationships. You will, however, obey my every directive when with me and agree to meet with me every time I ask for your presence. Such meetings will be arranged at least two weeks ahead of time. Furthermore, you’ll be given my phone number and are expected to answer calls and text as soon as possible when I attempt to contact you. If you don’t and I somehow find out, you will receive  _ punishment.” _ The last word is almost a purr, Jefferson’s Southern twang caressing every syllable of the word. It sends shivers down Y/N’s spine. “You’ll find my number in the contract under detailings of phone-use – forgive me, I can’t remember the exact section – and in two weeks, you’ll return to here at the same time with proposals for changes to the contract. Feel free two write directly in it. I’ll look it through and, hopefully, we’ll come to an agreement.”

The arrogance is radiating off of him, palpable in the wink he gives her and the cocky, handsome smirk.

He’s sure she’ll say yes.

And Y/N understands why;  _ Whatever her heart desires _ .

How can she possibly say no to this?   
  



	2. Chapter 2

“What are you reading?”

Y/N doesn’t flinch, knows Hercules is working on a jacket on the opposite side of the room and therefore can’t tell what she’s sitting with in her hands. She reaches the end of the page and turns it.

“The Odyssey. Translated by Emily Wilson,” she says.

She continues to read, praying Hercules won’t question the lie. She’s not too sure what she would tell him if he were to find out exactly what she’s reading – The contract does not fuck around:

_ Should the slave ever come to permanent bodily harm during the course of punishment or in any other slavery-related activity, whether by intention or accident, it will– _

“When did you get that?” Hercules’ voice is closer but only because he has moved to the large table in the middle of the room. Y/N lifts her gaze and releases a breath when she sees he’s not even looking at her. He’s far too preoccupied with some seams. His brows are still furrowed though. “Thought you were saving up for that other thing. That, uh, that perfume.”

“I already bought that.” The quiet shuffling of fabric stops and Hercules is staring at her, a deep frown drawn on his face. It doesn’t suit him. Hercules is at his most handsome when he’s laughing, unashamedly and loud, but now he looks confused and contemplative. “What?”

“Y/N, you’re broke.”

Y/N shrugs. “I got a bonus for staying late last Wednesday. Remember? I had to stay for five hours because someone fucked up the shipment. He got fired, the guy who fucked up, and I got a bit of extra cash.”

“Don’t you think you should set some of your earnings aside?” The confusion has turned to concern. “You’re spending an awful lot of money on things you really don’t need.”

There’s a wrenching in Y/N’s gut and,  _ ow, yeah _ , that’s her conscience setting in. She doesn’t want to be lying to Hercules, he’s her closest– maybe even only –friend and he’s sometimes the only person that reminds Y/N that humans aren’t inherently evil. It’s a sad but true fact. Hercules deserves so much better than her, but she can’t help but cling onto the friendship he offers her, fragile as it might be because of her involvement, and tug away every word of kindness, patience, and protectiveness he gives her in her heart.

But how can she not lie to him about this? She’s seriously considering agreeing to this…  _ thing  _ Jefferson is proposing, and that is a somewhat horrifying thought. Jefferson is, after all, a stranger.  _ But a rich stranger, _ her mind adds,  _ and handsome too. Those eyes– _

Y/N shivers, sees Hercules raise an eyebrow. She coughs.

“I got it under control, don’t worry. Besides, this isn’t the actual book, it’s just a pdf. Didn’t cost anything.”

Hercules seems satisfied with that answer and goes back to his work. Y/N, for what it’s worth, goes back to her own, highlighter at the ready, and re-reads the beginning of the paragraph she had been reading before she was interrupted.

_ Should the slave ever come to permanent bodily harm during the course of punishment or in any other slavery-related activity, whether by intention or accident, it will _ b _ e grounds for immediate termination of this contract, should the slave so desire. Permanent bodily harm shall be determined as: _

  * _Any damage that involves loss of mobility or function, including broken bones._


  * _Any permanent marks on the skin, including scars, burns, or tattoos, unless accepted by the slave._


  * _Any loss of hair, unless accepted by the slave._


  * _Any piercing of the flesh which leaves a permanent hole, unless accepted by the slave._


  * _Any diseases that could result in any of the above results, including sexually transmitted diseases._



Although the contract has already mentioned the necessity of both the master and slave warranting that neither of them have any diseases, sexual or otherwise, Y/N still highlights the last line.

She remembers Jefferson’s words:  _ I’m not asking for a relationship and certainly not the monogamous kind. _ Does that mean they have to get tested again if they fuck someone other than each other? Y/N needs to know this. Specifically, because Jefferson clearly doesn’t intend for Y/N to be his only stress relief. 

“OW!”

Y/N startles at Hercules’ outburst and jumps to her feet. “What happened?!”

Hercules winces as he sucks on his finger. “Nothing,” he says with the digit between his teeth, the word coming out muffled, “Just pricked myself with the needle. I’m not bleeding that much. Think it was mostly the shock.”

“Good. Thought you had been shut, what with the way you were screaming,” Y/N grins as she sits back on her chair.

Hercules flips her off with the hand not in mouth and Y/N laughs.

There’s not really anything unconventional about the contract: the fundamental terms are ordinary, as are the roles – The slave is to serve and obey the dominant in all things and she shall without query or hesitation offer the dominant such pleasure as he may require are normal in contracts like this one, and the master’s role and responsibility for the wellbeing of the slave is written out with precision and careful consideration.

The commencement date is in thirteen days if Y/N agrees, and the contract is effective for a period of three months from that day. She’ll have to be available to Jefferson if he asks for time with her two weeks in advance, but she can refuse to be with him if there’s a shorter time-window (though she doubts she’ll turn him down unless he asks for her during her work hours or piano lessons).

She continues reading and everything seems fine – she has to admit though, she’s getting a little hot and bothered: the prospect of giving herself over completely to someone…

The next time she uses the highlighter, she drags it over the line  _ The slave shall always conduct herself in a respectful manner to the master and shall address him only as Sir, Mr. Jefferson, or such other titles as the master may direct. _

On the side of the page, she writes a little note:  _ don’t call me sweetie or sweetheart _ .

“I’m packing up, Y/N. Wanna crash at my place?”

Y/N quickly flips the contract closed and slips it into her bag.

“I’ll eat at your place, but I have to go home later. Got an early shift tomorrow.”

Hercules nods, a smile adorning his visage. “Sounds good. We’ll order some pizza.”

In the car, Hercules drives, it’s his, they talk about everything and nothing at all. Naturally, Y/N leaves out anything pertaining to Jefferson but is otherwise completely honest with Hercules.

“No, I’m not seeing anyone. The only people I ever come in contact with are either people who have hit rock bottom, horrible or without ambition. Excluding you, of course!”

Hercules snorts. “Sure,” he says.

Then he laughs and Y/N joins him.

“Speaking of seeing someone,” Y/N continues, “How’s it going with you and that boy?”

At that, Hercules’ smile falters and his face twists into something sour. “Not good. He’s moving back to France though, says he’s not sure a long-distance relationship is gonna work.” His voice is thick like it’s stuck in his throat.

Hercules has always been the kind of guy to throw his heart into everything and everyone a little too recklessly.

“Oh, Hercules…” Y/N leans into him, lays a reassuring hand on his knee and kisses his clothed shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

He chuckles but the laughter dies in his throat far too easily.

“It’s fine. Not your fault.” A pause. “He still wants to see me while he’s here, though. He still wants to date me, just not… Officially.” He takes a deep breath, sad smile not at all reaching his eyes.

“See, this is why I don’t date people. It’s so much easier for me to not get my heart broken.”

Y/N’s attempt at humor falls flat – Hercules doesn’t say anything.

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

“It’s not, though. Hercules, you deserve better than him. If he doesn’t see how amazing you are, then he’s not worth your time. And clearly stupid.”

Hercules is silent for a moment, then breaks out a quiet but genuine smile. “Thanks, Y/N. You’re a good friend.”

_ I’m not, though. I’m a liar. _

"Thank you. You are too, Herc. Don't worry about him. If it's meant to be, then it'll be." She pauses and grips his knee a little tighter. "Everything will be alright."  



	3. Chapter 3

Hercules’ apartment is a cozy little thing, not quite as small as Y/N’s, but not large enough to feel vacant – a middleground with enough space for Hercules to study and design. It’s nice. Intimate. The space on his breakfast bar is covered in pamphlets from different fast-food restaurants, most of them somewhat crumbled from haphazardly being stacked in a pile throughout the years. Some of them are outdated, their restaurant in NYC having been replaced or closed down after being acquired. When Hercules and Y/N looked through them, Y/N said he should sort them and throw the ones he never uses out. Hercules laughed and said, “When I get the time.” Then he ran out the door to pick up their ordered food.

And Y/N is alone.

With Hercules not there, the space feels empty.

It’s raining outside, a constant rhythm of rain falling against the windows, blurring the glass and dimming the natural light in the apartment. To make up for it, Hercules had lit some candles before ordering their food.

Y/N is curled up on his couch, the navy blue one Hercules has had with him forever, a blanket draped over her shoulders, trying to soak up as much warmth as possible, skin still cold from the car-ride. The contract is in her lap, light and innocent-looking if not for the black letters printed on the front. Heat creeps to her cheeks as she goes through it, feeling oddly guilty for reading it in her friends’ private space. She can’t help it though. She knows herself well enough to know that if she doesn’t get it out of the way immediately, it’ll tumble around in her head all night and she’ll be turning and twisting in the thin sheets of her bed.

**_Rules_ **

_ Obedience: _

_ The slave will obey any instructions given by the master immediately without hesitation or reservation and in an expeditious manner. The slave will agree to any sexual activity deemed fit and pleasurable by the master, excepting those activities which the slave has put forth as hard limits, meaning activities the slave will not engage in under any circumstances. These boundaries the master will respect and adhere to unless stated otherwise by the slave. Otherwise, the slave will obey eagerly and without hesitation. _

On her phone, Y/N is gathering a list of hard limits, slowly. There aren’t many, but the ones there are are important to her. Some are for her own safety – _ no acts involving needles, knives, cutting, piercing, blood, fire or electric current  _ – some are to insure her ability to put the whole arrangement behind her if anything fucks up –  _ no acts that will leave any permanent marks on the skin _ – and some are for personal reasons she will not elaborate on, even if Jefferson asks about them –  _ no acts involving the slave losing her ability to see or hear _ . There are more and they’re all written out on a neat little list, which she adds to every time another thing comes to mind.

Lifting her legs, Y/N rests her feet on Hercules’ coffee table, well aware he uses it the same way himself. It’s cathartic in a way, going through the contract; The essence of it is both familiar and strange, bits and pieces a bit more elaborate than what she’s used to. Normally, she’ll have more power than what Jefferson clearly desires for her to have, but, then again, she’ll have more money than she’s used to having and that is a positive that far outweighs the possible negatives of the situation.

_ Clothes: _

_ During the term the slave will wear clothing only approved by the master. The master will provide a clothing budget for the slave, which the slave will utilize. The master shall accompany the slave to purchase clothing if deemed necessary by the master. If the master so requires, the slave shall, during the term, wear adornments the master shall require, in the presence of the master and any other time the master deems fit. _

This catches Y/N’s attention more than she cares to admit. In a moment, she’s found Jeffersons number and is adding it as a contract, fingers dancing over the screen, only pausing when she takes a second to consider whether or not she should text him now. She doesn’t know his schedule, only that it’s kinda late and that Jefferson never specified a time in which she can’t text him.

_ Fuck it. _

**You:**

**Hey, it’s Y/N. I’m currently reading the contract and have reached the part in which it details the rules for clothing. I was wondering what kind of clothes you are less inclined to approve and how much liberty I have when it comes to picking out what I’ll be wearing both when in your presence and not. Hope I’m not interrupting anything.**

It’s best to keep it formal, to keep him at an arm's length and not get too familiar before she’s agreed to anything.

Thoughts of haute couture and expensive shoes swirl in her mind as she patiently waits for a reply, switching out the contract for a worn-out copy of Plainwater by Anne Carson. She got it at a discount last year and has had it lying permanently in her bag ever since.

_ That’s another thing _ , Y/N realises.  _ I’ll be able to buy books again _ .

She has a small collection at home. Or, she supposes her  _ own _ apartment is a better term; she feels more at home with Hercules than anywhere else and it would be unfair to every other home to call the barely livable space she occupies a couple of streets from Hercules a home. But she does own a collection of books that stand in bookcase bought by Hercules as a gift for when finally found her own place. It’s mostly classic literature and poetry, though there are a couple of modern novels here and there, gathered through the years of her life –  _ When sad, buy books _ , she once said to Hercules and he laughed at her, replying  _ Let’s hope you don’t need to buy any more then _ .

Her phone buzzes. Expecting it to be a reply from Jefferson, she hastily picks it up, putting Plainwater beside her facedown.

It’s not from Jefferson though.

**_Maria:_ **

**_im so sorry Y/N but i dont think i’ll make it to the restaurant tonight_ **

**_something came up_ **

**_ill make it up to you_ **

Y/N’s shoulders slump. She’s completely forgotten about Maria. Then, she feels as if her stomach has been filled with lead, the way it aches familiar in the most unpleasant of ways.

**_You:_ **

**_Are you okay? Do I need to come get you?_ **

She watches the three dots with vigilant eyes as they disappear and reappear at the bottom of the screen.

**_Maria:_ **

**_im fine_ **

**_dont worry about me_ **

**_again sorry for standing u up_ **

Y/N doesn’t believe her, but she can’t do anything about it now.

**_You:_ **

**_It’s fine. We’ll figure something out another time._ **

Disappointment crawls under Y/N’s skin when Maria doesn’t answer immediately. She’s not disappointed in Maria though. She’s disappointed in herself.

Glancing at the time, she puts her phone away, once again opting to reread plainwater rather than stare into nothing. Vaguely, she notes that Hercules should be back with their food by now, but doesn’t question it. Probably just traffic.

Another couple of minutes go by with nothing but Y/N’s own quiet breathing filling the space around her, so when her phone buzzes again, she’s startled by the noise.

**_Jefferson:_ **

**_glad to hear you’re studying_ **

The lazy, honeyed drawl of voice carries through the text, despite the lack of noise. Y/N can almost imagine him whispering it against her ear – that low, arrogant lilt doing more for her than most men she’s ever met.

**_Jefferson:_ **

**_as for your question, i won’t decide what you’re wearing when you’re not with me. by all means, wear whatever you wish. however, i do have a certain… aesthetic_ **

**_i like my possessions elegant and pretty. expensive. designer clothes, big dresses and jewelry. i prefer purple and black and gold_ **

At the word  _ possessions _ , Y//N feels heat pooling in her lower stomach and unconsciously presses her thighs together.

**_Jefferson:_ **

**_i also very much appreciate unpacking my gifts_ **

A gasp presses past her lips as she reads the last message.

**_You:_ **

**_I’ll keep that in mind. Thank you, sir._ **

**_Jefferson:_ **

**_good girl_ **

She can almost see the pleased smirk adorning his face through the text, and she would’ve been annoyed if she wasn’t also eager to put a hand down her pants to soothe the ache between her legs. Those two words,  _ good girl _ , does something to her.

That’s when the sound a key being turned a door opening knocks her out of her increasingly dirty train of thought, the greasy smell of pizza wafting through the air.

“Sorry, it took so long.” Hercules throws his keys into a small bowl on the counter near the front door. “Some asshole thought it was a good idea not give a shit about the Highway Code.”

Y/N hums in reply, quick to turn off her phone.

With the pizza there, she’s realised how hungry she is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and Comments are both things that motivate me to write!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Mentions of domestic abuse, blood, and bruises

Evenings aren’t nice, Y/N thinks as she drags her feet up the stairs to her apartment. It isn’t something she’s ever considered before, but, now that she looks around, the dim lights placed seemingly at random across the walls in the narrow staircase doing nothing to quell the dark shadows cast through the windows, evenings truly aren’t nice.

It’s not exactly an epiphany, multiple people have told her they don’t like evenings – that’s when all the bad people start to roam the streets, or when monsters start peeking out from under the bed, they usually say, depending on whether they are an adult or a child – however, besides the crappy lightning in her apartment complex, Y/N believes evenings aren’t nice because most people are awake at that time. It’s when everyone is awake and listening and watching.

Y/N doesn’t like being watched, at least not when she can’t watch her watcher. It puts her on edge, hassles her. That’s why she doesn’t use social media; the mere thought of other people, strangers for the most part, being able to watch her without her knowledge sends a chill down her spine.

This is,  _ partly _ , why she’s so set on agreeing to Jefferson’s proposal. He knows so much about her and she doesn’t know how he managed to find this information. If she can get close to him, she might be able to find out how he gathers information, how he found her.

Somehow, she doesn’t believe him when he said he saw her at a  _ mall _ . It doesn’t sound right.

As she reaches the final flight of stairs before her apartment – she lives on the sixth floor – a loud noise, something breaking, can be heard on the opposite side of the hallway. She flinches. She’s used to it, but it doesn’t change the fact that she doesn’t like it.

Y/N sees everything and acts like she doesn’t, at least that’s what she likes to tell herself; it’s so easy to do it.

Above her lives a man going through a midlife crisis. Y/N knows he’s not dealing with it too well because he always throws the loudest and most dangerous parties. Multiple times, the police has come knocking on Y/N’s door, asking her if she’s seen or heard anything because someone’s been stabbed or beaten, and Y/N always shakes her head no, even though she’s quite aware of Jack’s tendency to have random outbursts of anger and Sam and Eric’s tendency to follow him blindly. She doesn’t need to get caught up in a court case as a witness and be placed under protection or anything of the sort.

She simply acts like she doesn’t know.

Another noise, sounds like glass, can be heard and this time it’s accompanied by a soft cry. Y/N stands at her door, key lodged into the keyhole and turned, ready to be opened. Her hands hover over the worn-out knob.

She takes a deep breath and, instead of walking away and into the safety of her cramped quarters, steps to the apartment opposite of her own and knocks on the door with a timid hand.

Three solid seconds of silence and then the door cracks open, the sound writhing in her ear. Reynolds gives her a deceptively kind smile.

“Can I help you,” he asks, blocking the view into their living room.

Still, Y/N catches the glimpse of a broken vase behind him. Her eyes trail down to Reynold’s hand on the door. It’s bleeding. The red runs down his skin. It looks sticky.

“Is everything okay?” Y/N wills her voice not to stutter, she’s always been good at that, but it’s difficult when she knows the intricate patterns of red seeping down his wrist isn’t because of an accident. “I heard a loud noise. Is Mrs. Reynolds okay?”

Something darkens in Reynolds’ stare as he tightens his jaw, but Y/N refuses to break eye contact, despite the intensity of his features, which are drenched in the barely concealed thoughts churning behind his eyes.

“Everything’s alright.”

Nothing is alright. Y/N knows this, because she’s seen Maria with purple marks scattered across her skin like drops of wine. She’s heard Maria cry into the quiet of the night after loud yelling emitting from their apartment, she’s had her knock on her door to ask for gauze and plasters, and she’s seen the gleam of fright rippling on the surface of her dark, beautiful eyes.

Usually, Y/N doesn’t intervene in other people’s lives. She keeps to herself - ‘see everything and act like you don’t’ is her motto.

But she cannot stand idly by as Maria gets beaten by her husband. 

Y/N called the police once, a long time ago. She told them of the domestic abuse - anonymously. The police showed up, had a short talk with Reynolds, and then left like everything was okay, even though it wasn’t. Y/N feared for Maria’s life that night. But she lived and the next day she begged Y/N not to call the police ever again. Somehow, she knew Y/N had done it and she cried to her that her husband was all she had, was dependant on him, and Y/N promised her she would never intervene again.

So Y/N hasn’t called the police again, even though she wants to. Even though she aches to.

Every time Maria and Y/N meet, all Y/N wants to do is take her in her arms and hold her, let her cry, insist that though she might feel like a fragile thing she’s so strong, deserves better.

She never does.

Maria refuses to be comforted like that. Insists it’s not like that at all.

A swell of anger rushes through Y/N, despite her timid nature, and she’s about to call Reynolds out on the bullshit he’s spitting, when a shaky voice, barely above a whisper, etches its way into her ear.

“Everything is fine, Y/N,” Maria says from beyond the breach of the doorway. “We’re okay.”

The undeniable tears running down her cheeks are palpable in her voice. She sounds broken, and a hand of steel wraps tightly around Y/N’s heart.

The taste of pizza on her tongue turns sour, reminds her of the pomegranate in Jefferson’s office.

It takes everything in her power not to push Reynolds down the stairs and rush to Maria’s side. She wants nothing more than to help her. But she doesn’t.

“I just heard a loud noise.” She wills her voice to remain steady, fights to keep the emotion out of tone. “I wanted to make sure you’re both okay.”

Reynolds lifts his hand, the one that’s bleeding, and waves it in front of her face in dismissal.

“Ah, thank you for your concern,” he says, sounding more annoyed than grateful, “but it was just my wife being a bit clumsy. She dropped a vase and I’m trying to clean it up.”

Behind him, Maria makes a wounded noise, and Reynolds glares back at her. Turning back to Y/N, he smiles again. It looks rotten.

“Do you need anything else, Y/N?” Reynolds sounds smug as he says her name.

He receives nothing but a harsh shake of the head.

And then the door closes and the click of a lock can be heard.

With a heart that feels twenty times heavier than just ten minutes ago, Y/N lets herself into her apartment, propping her dirty shoes against the wall and shedding her jacket.

_ Home sweet home _ , she thinks bitterly, before flinging herself onto the too-small-for-comfort bed in her three room apartment: Kitchen, bathroom, and bedroom (which also functions as a living room). The furnishing is sparse, as is the decorating.

On a chair across from the bed, an apron with the words KIMBAY’S KOFFEE is thrown over a chair, and Y/N groans when her gaze crosses it – she has to work tomorrow.

She just wants to sleep.

However, such a luxury she is denied as loud voices echo through the staircase she previously traversed, a soundboks blasting something she supposes resembles music.

Grabbing her pillow and curling it around her head, crushing it against her ears as she gets into a more comfortable position, she silently prays Jack won’t stab anyone tonight.

Her phone buzzes. It’s from Maria

**_Maria:_ **

**_sorry you had to witness that_ **

**_You:_ **

**_Are you okay? Please tell if there’s anything I can do._ **

**_Maria:_ **

**_its okay y/n_ **

**_its like he said_ **

**_i was just clumsy_ **

**_You:_ **

**_Maria, please. I don’t want you to hurt._ **

**_Maria:_ **

**_it doesnt matter_ **

**_just ignore it_ **

**_please_ **

**_You:_ **

**_Okay. I won’t ignore it, but I won’t antagonize him either. Just know that if you say the word, I will help you do whatever it takes to get you out of this situation._ **

**_Maria:_ **

**_james is my husband_ **

**_i love him and he loves me_ **

**_there is no situation to get out of_ **

**_it’s just a little hiccup_ **

**_You:_ **

**_Maria, you deserve someone better than him. He’s hurting you. Please tell me you understand that._ **

Maria doesn’t respond.

Y/N just wants to sleep.

But evenings aren’t nice, so she doesn’t.  
  



End file.
